


fortes fortuna adiuvat

by egare



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Muteness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, When You Give Stormcloaks a Child...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egare/pseuds/egare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They went in to kill Thalmor agents and rescue their captured kinsmen. They went out with Altmer blood on their blades, injured brothers and sisters on their way home, and a mute child in their arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rescue

_"You have to go to her, please, let me take care of this! I can take care of this!"_

_"Dragonborn-"_

_"Lydia, help him and go! GO!"_

"A disgrace to the Altmer."

_He closed the gate behind them, refusing to let Lydia stay and help. He ran in the opposite direction, thankful that they did not seem to consider running the other way if they had their sights set on the boy. But he was heading toward a dead end, he knew it. He would have to fight._

"We could have you be adopted into a lovely Altmer family, if you only cooperate."

_The blade that belonged the first Draugr he had ever killed was unsheathed, and he turned around, facing his fate with dignity._

"Why protect a few men? What have they done for you?"

_He was only a child, but he was prepared. He had to be prepared._

"Tell us where they are."

_Fus Ro Dah!_

"Tell us!"

* * *

 

His senses each only knew one thing.

"Dragonborn or not, we will kill you if you do not give us their locations."

He felt pain, both dull and flaming at the same time. He tasted blood, his own, naturally. He smelled dirt, excretion, disgusting things one should not be forced to live with. He heard only the questions that, no matter how they were worded, dwindled down to one ultimate question-

"Where are the remaining Blades?"

He saw nothing.

The room was dark, as they deprived him of the knowledge of where he was, who he was with. If he did not hear the sound of his cell door creaking, of footsteps coming for the morning and evening sessions, he would not know when a gloved hand would be there to hit him, not know when a mace was coming for his stomach.

Yet even in the darkness, his captors knew his answer. They saw him every time he shook his head, not giving them the information. When he faltered, didn't have enough strength to shake his head quick enough, they gave a wicked smile, assuming they were slowly getting to him. They were smart- his hands had been broken and gloved, stopping any magic attempts of escape. And his head had been forced upward, making sure that any Shout he gave did not harm the Altmeri in the room. They might have gagged him, but the Dragonborn figured they expected him to crack while screaming.

But his captors were also liars- they did not kill him. They tortured him, sure, but never to the point of death. No doubt they were terrified of what would happen if it was found out that the Dragonborn- one who supported the Empire, at that- was killed at the hands of the Thalmor. Backlash, an end to the war as the sides banded together under a shared martyr. Under a child. The idea was too terrible for them, and the Dragonborn used that to his advantage to keep sane. He was going to live through this. All he had to do was wait for the Blades to find where they took him.

And so he waited.

"Where are they?"

The Thalmor had gotten angry at his lack of cooperation. It was around that time that sound started coming back to him, as recently captured prisoners wasted their energy yelling and fighting two stories above, on the ground floor. Four of them, by the sounds of it.

"Are we not better allies than one Breton woman and an old man?"

They had gotten desperate.

They had gotten careless. Not making sure he ate once every two days, not catching the signs of hurting him too much. Some parts of him wished that it would take weeks before they noticed, and they would let him starve to death, if only to let him achieve peace.

His body ached, as he half-kneeled, chained to the wall from broken wrists.They had decided that a few days alone was the best next course of action- they gagged him, allowing him the small gift of moving his head, and hadn't returned. He hadn't eaten for five days, the room seemed impossibly darker than before. At times, it was so quiet that he could hear his own heart beating, even at its slow pace.

His ears perked up at the sound of yelling, blades clashing, and shields hitting bodies. Someone had staged a rescue, for the prisoners two floors up, no doubt. They were too loud, too bold, to be anyone that he knew. But the sound travelled down from the first assumed spot, and a glimmer of hope started to grow in the Dragonborn- was someone coming for him?

But the glimmer was smashed, as he realized a few things- it was too dark, they couldn't see him unless they really knew he was there, and he was gagged.

"Hello?" A Nord was calling from the stairs that led to the floor he was on, all the way across the hall. He had been put in the last cell, away from the stairs, away from any torches that might have been used to make sure one didn't fall down the steps. "Anyone here?"

He tried calling out, but his throat was burning, and the gag muffled any sounds that had escaped painfully through him. He tried to hit the shackles and chains to the stone walls to generate sound, hoping they found him.

"Gundke said there was someone down here, had been screaming a few days ago until the bastards stopped coming downstairs-"

"They even alive?"

"The others were closest to the dungeon doors, and they never saw a body got dragged out. There might be a chance whoever it is, is alive."

The sight of flames bothered the boy's eye, uncomfortable with the brightness that he had been deprived of for so long. But it brought relief, as a man's face accompanied it. His remaining decent eye glanced down at the uniform and he would have tensed if his body was not in pain.

Stormcloaks.

"Sogni, over here!" The one that had been called over got to work on the lock, as the one that did the calling put his torch closer to the bars, trying to get a good look at the person they had found.

"By the Nine, he's a child..." He announced in disbelief, and the boy winced at the studying look he was receiving. "Why would they-"

"He's gagged, idiot. Can't really answer you." The lockpicker pointed out, having glanced up and noticed the cloth in the boy's mouth.

"I was going to ask _you_  why they would kidnap a goldskin kid, idiot." He glared at his brother-in-arms, but there was no hatred behind it. The lockpicker's eyes went to the boy's ears, whose ends were covered by grown out hair that had not been cut nor cleaned for months.

"Hurry up, you two, we need to head back!" A female voice called from the stairs, startling everyone there. A lockpick broke, and Fjorst yelled back.

"Got it, just need to open this damn lock. Hurry up, Sogni!"

"You put _Sogni_ in charge of lockpicking?" The voice asked, less shouty as she got closer. She gave a glance at the Altmer chained to the wall and went stone-faced, not commenting on his state as she shoved Sogni and took over for opening the door.

No broken lockpicks later, and the two men were thanking her, heading into the cell to undo the chains holding the boy's hands above his head and his body to the wall. He whimpered at his wrists and hands being moved around, but went along nonetheless, knowing they would not purposefully harm him. Unless this was a trap-

"Why'd they gag him?" The woman asked, as said gag was taken off and thrown to the side.

"A screamer, maybe? He's an elf, probably not used to pain." Sogni suggested, throwing the prisoner's right arm over his shoulder and slowly moving to stand up. At the elf's pained looks and pale face he stopped, Fjorst took him from his fellow soldier, shifting himself so he could carry the child bridal style.

He looked small in the Nord's arm, the dehydration and starvation evident at his body's state. The soldiers looked worried at how easy it was to pick the mer up, but said nothing as the group started moving.

"Let's get going." The woman took the front of the group, sword drawn in case a Thalmor agent or two survived the bloody massacre the soldiers put on beforehand. But the journey was silent and uneventful, everything being taken care of on the way down rather than on the way back up, and the Stormcloaks soon arrived at the carts with the last ex-prisoner.

There was a certain politeness to fighting in Skyrim, especially civil wars. Civilians were never targeted, couriers were neutral, and unless they attacked first, carts of the injured and dead were not hit outside of actual battle time. The journey was quiet, as freed prisoners slept and let their bodies heal, the only Nord capable of restoration magic in the group helping the best he could. Those that were well enough walked alongside the cart, prepared to fight animals and bandits off if need be.

Fjorst's eyes kept wandering to the child, as he healed the most extensive injuries of his kinsmen first. Did the Altmer have a family to return to? Why did the Thalmor want him? How long had he been there?

Who was he?

His eyes wandered to Erik- one of the younger soldiers, barely a man, who had the most extensive of the injuries. He was the only one fighting for his life- some wounds, not even a healer could cover. Fjorst had finished healing the others as best as he could before he sat down next to the man- no, boy, and held Erik's hand in his own.

"We're going to stop in Whiterun." The soldier explained, and started to tell a story of the hold to keep the boy calm and distract him from the feeling that was no doubt growing in him. "Ah, I have... Interesting memories, of Whiterun. There's a nice general store, although the owner's a tad strange. I found a troll's tongue being sold there, once."

The boy gave a smile and a huff of laughter, as Fjorst told the story of buying his first troll tongue- and of feeding it to Gundke. But the laugh turned into a cough, wet with blood. The soldier was pale, his eyes out of focus, but a small smile remained on his face as Fjorst's story accompanied him into a blissful sleep.

"Talos guide you." He murmured, setting the boy's hand down and looking at the others in the cart. One soldier, who had taken to running her hands through the unconscious Altmer's hair, had watched the whole conversation with sad eyes. She had had multiple smaller wounds, burns here and there, slices from swords, the usual in a fight against elves. But she also had a busted leg, which was on its way to being healed- an actual healer would be needed for that, though, Fjorst was not talented enough to fix a shattered leg.

The other two in the cart had less extensive injuries, exhaustion and mental abuse being more prominent in their pale faces and scared eyes. All three of them- Oblivion, all seven of the ones they saved- were too young for this. Or perhaps Fjorst was too old, too idealistic, thinking that men who could barely grow beards were not supposed to be fighting a war for their freedom.

And his eyes wandered back to the Altmer boy, still sleeping. He was obviously in pain, but there was so much Fjorst couldn't do- he healed a few sprains and bruises, but the boy's wrists were shattered, fingers broken, and it seemed like it had not just been physical abuse that plagued him.

* * *

 

It was two days later, the sun nearly set, when the two carts got to the gates of Whiterun.

It was an interesting situation. The hold was technically neutral, so the guards had the right to either refuse or accept Stormcloak and Imperial entry. It really just depended on the guards' decision at the time, and their opinions of the two armies.

"We just wish to heal our wounded and rest for the night, and then we will be on our way." Katreki tried to explain to the suspicious guards, who had their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

"We don't want no trouble here." He told the Stormcloaks, and Fjorst could just imagine Katreki giving an annoyed sigh and shouting at him that that was what she meant. But she kept her cool, nodding.

"We don't wish to cause any."

"The Battle-Borns..." The second guard mentioned to the first, and they shared a look, before shaking their heads.

"We're really sorry, we can't risk it."

Katreki nodded, expecting such a thing, and ordered the carts to turn around and continue on. They had enough supplies to make it to Riverwood by early morning, if they didn't run into too much trouble.

"Wait." Fjorst called out, tensing as the guards looked at him. "We have a child."

The two tensed and shared a second look before sighing, one of them heading to unlock the gate as the other addressed the group.

"Head on in. If we even hear a whisper about you lot causing trouble..."

The threat was left unended and Katreki thanked them on behalf of all Stormcloaks present. All the injured that could walk a short distance got out of the carts, latching onto a healthier ally that could help them to the Temple of Kynareth. Fjorst lifted the sleeping child, and the two were leading the group inside, staying calm at the glares and insults that were hurled their way.

"Not a happy lot here, are they?" Gundke and his helping shoulder mumbled behind them, getting a chuckle from Fjorst. It was true- the Stormcloaks noticed the Battleborns, even if they did not know them by name, by the glares and snarls that they received on their way to the temple.

"Hey, Fjorst-" He turned his head at his name being called, and gave a nod of greeting to Sogni. "Katreki and I will be heading up to Dragonsreach, to inform the Jarl that we mean no harm. Want to come with?"

"... I should stay." He mumbled, looking down at the child and at all of his injured kinsman around him. "I want to offer as much help as I can. There probably are not many priests here to help this many people."

"Suit yourself."

* * *

 

The group of sixteen had left the following afternoon, their wounded no longer in life threatening statuses. The ride to Windhelm was less tense, as they entered Stormcloak territory, and without the threat of death hanging over nearly every soldier, they seemed almost... Cheerful.

"Octavia screamed like a pansy."

"Excuse me, I recall that being you, when they took anything sharp near your eye." She defended herself, crossing her arms. "They only stopped that because your screams were too annoying."

Fjorst's eyes wandered back to the boy, who was sleeping. He was healthier than before, having been awake enough to eat a bit of stew after the most extensive of his injuries were taken care of. His hands would heal nicely, his legs would get their strength back, and he would be fine physically in a week or so. But there were older injuries not on his body that could not be cured, deeper than the scars he would have, harsher than the starvation and hypothermia.

How long had he been a prisoner, Fjorst wondered?

But the days continued and they eventually made it back to Windhelm, tired and ready to take a four day nap. Half of them fell into their beds and the other into seats at the tavern, leaving only a select few to actually report to the Jarl. Sogni took the Altmer boy to the first priestess he thought of, hoping her restoration skills were good enough to help continue to heal him.

Fjorst and Katreki stood in front of the doors to the Palace of the Kings, hesitating.

"It is rather late."

"We would not want to interrupt the Jarl's resting time, he needs as much as he can get."

"What with the war and all."

"Yes, what with the war and all."

"Just get in there!" A guard barked at them, annoyed with their hesitance. He opened the door for them, gesturing for them to head in before he shoved them in himself, and Katreki cursed.

"Galmar's going to kill us for waking him up-"

"Apparently not."

Jarl Ulfric was seated awake on his throne, his eyes falling to the duo that entered and walked forward.

"My Jarl." The two bowed, and he studied them, eyebrows furrowed.

"Please say that the rest of my men are at the taverns and the barracks."

"They are drinking and sleeping, very much alive, my Jarl." Katreki offered, and they watched as he gave a sigh of relief. But she knew she had to dig the arrow out quickly, so to speak, and added on sharply, "Three deaths. Two of the parents have been told on the way here."

He closed his eyes, and asked for the names of the soldiers. The two complied, and watched a pained look cross his face. Three was not too bad, but no casualties would have been better.

"And the Thalmor agents?"

"Their base was cleared."

"Good."

Silence.

"Any long-term injuries?"

"None of our soldiers received any injuries that could not be healed." Fjorst said carefully, leaving room for the Jarl to question why he specified the soldiers. His face darkened as he assumed the worst, and had to ask.

"Civilians?"

"A boy, my Jarl. Has not even reached his thirteenth winter, I believe."

The Jarl hissed out a curse, not audible to the ones he was speaking to. "Where is this boy now?"

"Sogni took him to Priestess Jora, to see if she could help."

Ulfric nodded, showing a look that meant he was going to ask about the boy later, but excused the two for the night.

"Tell the others they did well, Fjorst." He ordered, and the soldier nodded, turning around to go get some well deserved sleep.

* * *

 

The sun had not risen when Fjorst woke up, preparing to make a quick stop at the Temple of Talos before he returned to work. He pulled a cloak over his uniform, not wanting to be stop by any conversational guards that were already up, and wanting to get there as quickly as possible.

The doors creaked as he opened them, shutting the cold out as soon as he entered the Temple. It was quiet in the front room, and Fjorst paid his respects at the shrine before heading toward the back where the married priest and priestess lived.

"Is this blasphemous?" Jora murmured with an amused grin, as she noticed Fjorst entering. She was changing the bandages around the child's wrists, and her eyes wandered to the Altmer's face to ensure that she was not causing him too much pain. "It is nice to see you again, Fjorst. How did the rescue go?"

The soldier raised an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes. "There was an increase of men in the temple two weeks ago, did you not think I would notice? Some of them pray awfully loud, too."

He gave a huff of laughter and a nod, answering her question. "Pretty well. There will be a few extra men here today, though."

Deaths. She gave her condolences as she stood from the side of the bed, heading to the front room with Fjorst. His mind was wandering to the child, she could see that, and he was thankful that she brought information to him before he had to ask.

"He will survive. The wounds were not ones meant to kill him, it seems." Jora informed him, before hesitantly asking, "Who did this to him? Was it our-?"

"No, never." He cut her off, not able to comprehend why she would even ask that. "Thalmor. No idea what they wanted from him, though."

"And the Jarl? What does he think of the boy?"

"What is he to think?" Fjorst countered, sitting down on one of the benches and letting his eyes wander to the statue of his god. "A part of me doubts his kindness, and thinks he may assume the boy to be a spy."

"Not unwise of him to be paranoid."

"He's a child, Jora!" The soldier was in disbelief. "Not even the Thalmor would stoop that low, to use children!"

"How can you be sure of that?" The two went quiet, the sounds of Windhelm waking up outside being the only thing to interrupt their silence. "He may not even know it, but he may be a spy. There were wounds at least five months old, who knows what they might have done to his mind...."

"I do not believe he would willingly become a spy. And if they somehow are forcing him to be one, I will not let him be even in the same hold as any Thalmor bastard if I can help it."

"And if his parents ask for his return?"

"What parent would let their child be kidnapped for five months without saying anything?" He pointed out, anger flaring at the idea. Now that he thought about it, the child could have been taken for the faults of his parents. "They would have to get through me if they wanted to get him back."

"Would he have to go through you if he wanted to go back?"

"Of course not."

A pause.

"What were his injuries like, before you brought him to me?"

A pained look crossed Fjorst face. "His hands and wrists were shatters. To stop him from using magic, most likely. Bruises, his stomach and face, mostly. His legs had given out months ago, no doubt."

"Anything... Interesting? Different?" She asked, cautious. "A burn, an oddly shaped scar?"

"Not that I remember. Why?"

"He seems... out of it. I do not know if it is a potion, a spell, perhaps? Maybe... Maybe it had just been too long. There is a chance he may never be the same. More than just a chance, actually. What do you plan to do with him?"

"...is he in pain?"

"No."

A pause.

"I will care for him, however damaged his mind may be."


	2. Waking

He woke in silence.

The first sense that returned to him was sound, the whistle of gentle winds hitting the roof meeting his ears. Sight followed soon afterward, as a high ceiling grabbed his attention. It was peaceful, for the few moments that he had only those two senses.

But then feeling return, and he gasped, pain running throughout his body. He blinked and was returned to his cell, his mind screaming at him for being idiotic enough to think he had ever escaped. The wind was replaced with harsh cackles of Altmeri guards, the roof he once caught sight of turning to the pitch blackness that was so familiar.

His body lurched forward as he tried to escape the pain that ran up his spine, but it made him cry out by spreading over the rest of him. Sound was everchanging, from the cackles of the guards to a buzz, the static of Sparks, a small tinkling spell that sounded like Healing. But they would only heal him if they wanted to hurt him again- he learned to associate that sound with something that was not good, and flinched at the pain he expected to follow the small moment of kindness.

But when no pain followed, he stopped squeezing his eyes shut, and peeked, looking to see what was happening. High ceiling, sunrise streaming in through the window, and... A Nord? A not tortured Nord, at that. A priestess.

He was back in the imagined room.

He tried to murmur things he wondered to himself, but something was stuck in his throat- coughing was painful, and as the thing blocking his voice wasn't, he opted to not speak. Instead, the child simply thought his question, hoping his face portrayed it well enough for the Nord to guess.

_Where am I?_

"There is no need to be alarmed," the priestess began, stepping forward once more. When had she backed up, after healing him? Whose blood was on her torn sleeve? "The Thalmor cannot get to you here. You are safe. Talos watches over any prisoners of war, man or mer."

A Temple of Talos? He would have guessed Markarth, he had heard of a Shrine being hidden away there, but it was too cold, and the beds were not of stone. Ah, where was it, it was eastern-

"The soldiers brought you back with them, you are safe here, in Windhelm."

There, a name. Windhelm. He knew of it.

"You will need to stay for a while, most likely, but we can send a letter to your parents if you would like them to know you are safe."

His parents? His father disappeared when the boy was ten, leaving behind only a dagger to remember him with. It was probably lost in the Ratways, now that he thought of it. His mother had packed everything up and taken him to Skyrim the next morning, not looking back at the home they were leaving. It was when she was going back to visit family nearly two years later that she had been caught in an Imperial ambush. She was gong to be executed with the Stormcloaks, and her captors did not understand reason as she explained that she was half-Breton, half-Altmer; not a Nord, and certainly not a Stormcloak. The boy didn't know if the executioner's axe or the flames of the dragon that attacked Helgen got her first. He hoped for the first, if only for it to be as painless as possible.

With a shake of his head he rejected the idea of sending a letter to his parents. And she tightened her lips, concerned for a moment, before giving a nod and agreeing to let go of the topic.

"What is your name, child?" He tried to open his mouth to reply, and succeeded in the movement, but any attempts at sound failed. The priestess nodded, expecting as much. "The others mentioned you used your voice quite a bit, when they heard you. You shouted most of the time. Just drink plenty of water, and you should be fine in no time."

A sinking feeling grew in his stomach as he considered the wording- was there a capital on the v of the voice? The s of the shout? Did they know, because he could not control himself?

Had he injured anyone on the way there?

She could see him thinking himself into a panic, and was quick to just start talking, distracting him from his own thoughts. "One of the men that found you has been stopping by every now and again. You have been out ever since they put you on the cart two weeks ago, we were all worried we had not made it in time. He will be happy to see you awake, when he stops by once more."

His eyes wandered to his forearm as she started to remove the bandage, letting her magicka light up and spread to continue healing his arm and wrist. It was sore, but not as painful as he remembered it to be- not broken anymore, most likely.

"I would refrain from using any magicka for a few days, and do not push yourself once you do start using it again- listening to your body is critical, so it can heal properly." She continued on, rewrapping his arm tightly to keep it straight. "Do you know what month it is?"

She was so casual in her questioning, as she reapplied his bandages, that he nearly answered. But the boy formed a fist before it could give away any information, not trusting the Nord in front of him. Her mouth thinned and she shook her head, making the Altmer tense- was she going to hurt him for not answering? Was she just another attempt for information by the Thalmor?

Could he be sure he was in Windhelm?

"It is Rain's Hand." She informed him, and the boy's widening eyes made her give him a sympathetic look. "We will try to get you back up and well as soon as possible. You need not worry too much."

He gave a wary nod of understanding, and she smiled kindly, finishing up with his bandages. "You are free to leave, but it would be best to return here tonight so I could change your bandages. It is not required, of course, but would be beneficial."

A nod. The boy slowly sat up, moving his legs over the bed and hesitating at the idea of actually standing. She had stood as well, offered a hand to help him stand; he was quick to shake his head and refuse, knowing he could stand if he just forced himself to.

Like ripping out an arrow.

He gripped the bed and pushed himself up, surprised at the lack of pain. But he thought for a moment- they gave him health potions for two weeks straight, he figured it wouldn't hurt much anymore.

His steps were slow as he got back into the pace of walking, keeping a hand against the wall in case his legs gave out. The priestess walked next to him, her eyes not leaving his body as she made sure she would be prepared to catch him, if he fell.

They had made it to the front door and were opening it when the elf winced, too many sounds reaching his ears. Jora gave a small apology, but was cut off from any further conversation when they were confronted by blue-and-brown outfitted soldiers.

"Lad!" One of the guards greeted, and the familiar voice made the boy look up, curious. Two of the guards were heading over to them. The first guard took his helmet off, shaking out his hair and giving a nod of hello. "Finally leaving the bird's nest, eh?"

The boy gave a confused look in return, turning to the priestess for information. She offered all she could. "This is Fjorst, and Gundke- you should be resting, young man! Fjorst found you when he and the rest of the Stormcloaks were looking for Gundke, and a few others. It was he that decided to bring you to Windhelm."

The elf gave a nod of thanks to Fjorst, frowning slightly at the embarrassed look Gundke had adopted. Did he not wish for his capture to be spoken about? He had survived, and he had worked to help others while he himself had been injured- most would consider that heroic.

"What brings you to the marketplace?" Fjorst stirred the conversation away from the rather dark history the trio shared, reminding himself of the boy's situation. He got a shrug and a gesture up toward the open air in return, and tried to hide his disappointment from the young elf. The Stormcloak thanked Priestess Jora, taking care of the boy from there as they headed toward the marketplace.

It was when they had made it to the stands- food, armor, general goods- that Fjorst looked back down at the boy. He grinned at the fact that the elf was distracted, his head turned toward the left as he caught sight of the blacksmith, smithing away.

"Were you wanting to buy a weapon? We had taken a bit of extra coin from the Thalmor back in Haafingar, I don't think Gundke will mind if I use his portion to get you a nice blade."

The eyes he got in return nearly made him laugh, a surprised " _You'd do that?_ " clearly visible.

"Of course. Oengul!" Fjorst greeted the blacksmith, who had given a wave in his direction as he finished up sharpening one of the swords he was going to sell. The two went around the half-wall, and Fjorst let the boy wander away from his side, checking out the weaponry lying about. With cheerful sarcasm, the blacksmith returned the sentiment of the greeting.

"Back for another sword, are we? Is that the third this week?"

"I will have you know I have had this one for two months, and she's still going strong! No, we're looking for a- a dagger, probably?"

A nod of confirmation. Oengul eyed the Altmer standing a ways away, and raised an eyebrow. "You've an extra wife I should know about?"

"He ain't mine, don't be dumb."

"You're the one insultin' the man who makes your blades and armor, I'm not the idiot here." Nonetheless, he pulled a chest out from under the table, opening it up to reveal well organized daggers.

"We got this warrior comin' around every now and then, sellin' dwarven and elven s- things. I think she's gone mad, she has, cause she's been chasin' after the butcher too- but these weapons that she sells are good for business, so I'm not complaining."

"Let the boy look, I need to speak to you privately for a minute."

Oengul threw a glance at the child and Fjorst rolled his eyes, assuring him the kid wouldn't steal anything.

"I would have his sorry ass carted back to where we found him if he tried anything, don't worry." The boy tensed, and Fjorst cursed- he thought he had said it quietly enough for the elf not to hear.

Damn kids with their young ears. He dropped his voice even lower as he talked to the blacksmith.

"You know how I got you fourteen orcish swords over the past year, correct? How I saved your assistant when she got kidnapped by bandits?"

"If you're planning on marrying her, I ain't her father-"

"By the Nine no, she's too obsessed with the Jarl, I couldn't stand it. No, I need a favor regarding our little elf friend over there. He might need a place to stay." At the blacksmith starting to object, he continued on. "He would work for it, of course. And don't give me that spiel of elves not working as hard as men do, once he's back up and all better, I know for certain that he can forge weapons as good as an Orc could."

"All better? What happened to him?" Oengul questioned, throwing a glance at the boy as he said such. He watched as the elf picked up an orcish dagger, feeling its weight and testing it on the air a few times. The blacksmith knew experience when he saw it- that wasn't the testing of an amateur, as he looked at it versus the edge of the table. And if he used daggers and weapons, he would be easier to teach. If all else failed, he would have the boy help clean a bit.

"Let us agree to say simply that it was not a very nice place that we found him in."

A pause.

"If he's staying in Windhelm, I have an extra bed." Oengul sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and returning his eyes to Fjorst. "But if I get in trouble for housing an elf-"

"He's not a dark elf, you'll be fine."

In the near distance, the boy picked up a weapon of steel, admiring the light pulse of red as he studied the feel of the dagger in his hands. Oengul grinned, as Fjorst handed some coin to the blacksmith, winking at the boy.

"Just pay me back by visiting me every once in a while, yeah?" He said to the boy as they left the blacksmith, and the shorter male nodded feverishly, smiling. "Let's get you back to the priestess."

"I don't know, Fjorst," Oengul interrupted, leaning against the wall. "I say the lad needs to test it out against someone, first."

* * *

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak disliked most Altmer.

Not all, but most.

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak also disliked most children.

Well, no, not disliked, per se. He had a fondness for them, deep in his heart. He wished them to have the childhood they deserved, not one where they had to worry if their siblings and parents were coming home from the latest battle. Where they wondered if they were young enough to not be carted off to a Thalmor prison if they were caught worshipping Talos. He had hoped that children would have been left largely unaffected by the war, but it was hardly the case- every day, families were torn apart, workload doubled, and siblings were dragged into fighting.

Bandits and dragons? He was fine with them. But he disliked facing children, if only because he knew how much this war he fought affected them.

Yet here he was, sitting on a bench and staring at the statue of Talos, and letting his mind wander to an Altmer child that was supposedly resting in the room just behind said statue. He knew that he could just go and see the ex-prisoner, figure out just how he was and let his mind be at ease, but something was holding him back. The knowledge that the boy took the brute of the Thalmor's attention? The fact that he had no idea why the boy was taken, what information he had on whom, if he was strong enough to be considered a threat?

He got up and waved at his silent housecarl to stand down and relax, trusting those in the back room to not harm him. Ulfric headed over to the only other room in the temple, poking his head in and giving a knock on the open door.

"Jarl Ulfric," the priestess greeted, surprised as she saw the Jarl enter. She dragged him out of his thoughts and slight worry, smiling as he returned the greeting. Ulfric gave her a once over, curious about the general blood and the torn sleeve but not saying anything on the matter. There was something more important bothering him- the bed was clean and empty, sheets folded and made up. And there was no elf in sight.

"Where is the boy?"

"The boy?" Jora had taken off her robe, revealing skin-tight armor underneath as she shuffled around her drawers for a clean replacement. Ulfric looked away, slightly embarrassed. In her own words, she had 'seen the Jarl cry and pray since he was a little boy,' and found no need for formality between herself and he other than throwing a title in now and then. "Oh, he's up and walking already, my Jarl. He just went off to get some fresh air."

"By himself?"

"A few of the soldiers nearly jumped him the moment they saw the boy leave. Probably accompanying him for the day."

Ulfric nodded as a silent 'That's good,' lapsing into an awkward quietness as he had more to question but not enough talent to put everything together. He fell back on rather harsh-sounding orders, used to that more than conversation, considering the time they were living in.

"Why was I not informed of him waking?"

The priestess would have glared, had it been anyone else. "He just dealt with the Thalmor, my Jarl. I wanted to give him a bit of freedom before anyone asked him any questions, to know we mean no harm."

He accepted the answer, and the two fell back into silence. Three words were hesitantly thrown into the air by the Jarl, as he questioned about the wellbeing of the ex-prisoner.

"How is he?"

"He is getting better, but it... it is very bad, Jarl Ulfric." Jora looked up for a moment, pausing in her search for a robe. "Physically, he will be fine. But I can place some scars as up to five months old. It's concerning, to say the least.

"His mental state is what worries you." Ulfric himself had only been their prisoner for two months ( _Sixty two days, fourteen hours, three minutes_ ) and still had flashbacks; he could only imagine how the boy was doing.

"Indeed, my Jarl. He may pretend to be fine, but..."

"I know men that have ended their own lives because of those elves, having only been prisoners for a few days." He admitted, turning his eyes back to the now-dressed priestess as she lifted her hood and turned to him. "If he is capable of surviving for months, he has a strong enough will to survive the afterma-"

A door opened and interrupted him, as armored boots were heard running in.

"Priestess Jora!" A Nord man's voice called out, disrupting the peace of whispers that had fallen on the two occupants of the temple. After a brief glance out, Ulfric got the details- a soldier, holding a small bundle in his arms and looking rather panicked. Jora excused herself with a slight bow, yelling for the man to set his wounded on a bench. Ulfric followed her out, giving her enough space to work as he pulled the guard- Fjorst, he recognized- to the side, and started to question him.

"At ease, soldier. What happened?" He let his eyes wander to the child wrapped in a blanket. It was half-off, bunched around his waist as he sat on one of the benches, annoyed and not looking to be in pain. The child and Priestess seemed to be sharing silent thoughts with one another.

"It is only a scratch." Jora explained, rolling her eyes. The elf seemed irritated, as he held his arm out for the priestess and revealed the tiniest of slices. Parchment had given bigger injuries, and he did not seem to be in the slightest bit of pain.

"He was buying himself a dagger, and we engaged in a small sparring match at the blacksmith's, and he had not defended h- don't give me that look!" He snapped at the elf, who had glared at the blame being put on himself. "-and I accidentally hit him."

"I bleed more than this every month." Jora grumbled, placing a clean cloth on the wound and telling the child to apply pressure. The elf did so, blushing at the comment, as he was left to his own devices. The priestess got up and directed her anger toward Fjorst. "If you come to me and make me drop everything for a simple _scratch_ , I will make you wish it was-"

"Priestess Jora, please," Ulfric interrupted, wanting to make sure there was not too much fighting in the temple. "It was an honest mistake of someone worried for a child. Is he yours...?"

"This is the child from Haafingar, my Jarl." The priestess informed him, turning back and starting to help the elf as he tried to fold up the large blanket that he had been forced to wear. Ulfric's eyes widened fractionally, and he took the time where Jora and Fjorst fell back into light banter to study the child.

Blond hair hid the pointed ears from any once-over glances, but could be seen poking out if one was really looking. Less pointed than he remembered most Altmer ears to be- perhaps he was half? There were holes in them, minuscule, from where jewels would decorate the lobe and edge. The child was sporting a set of standard children's clothes, ones that one would see on an orphan, and did not seem too comfortable in them. But he was keeping up an alright facade, hiding the fact that he did not enjoy the unfamiliar clothes. Ulfric saw the slightest concentration on the first few times he moved his arms up, the elf having thought he needed more force than he actually had to give to move them. As if he was used to armor weighing him down.

A sick thought came to mind, at the idea of someone using him as a sort of child soldier. Perhaps he originally worked for the Thalmor, but ran away and was captured as a rebel afterward? Or maybe, and a part of him wished it was true, the elf grew up in a bandit camp and wore armor for precautionary defense, not offense.

When his eyes turned up slightly, wanting to study the elf's face, green eyes met his. Ulfric turned away, realizing he had been caught staring, and instead turned to interrupt the arguers, brushing off the encounter.

"It will not happen again, Priestess." Ulfric said on Fjorst's behalf, ultimately ending the small feud as the two threw final glares at each other. "Where is he staying?"

"Here, at the te-"

"The blacksmith agreed to house him for an indefinite amount of time, my Jarl." Fjorst interrupted, shocking the two that were unaware of the development. "Of course, he would have to work for some of the time-"

"He still needs to heal!" Jora snapped, not agreeing with the housing situation. "His hands-"

"Can lift a battleaxe double his size." Fjorst interrupted, throwing a glance at the now-sheepish elf. "He knocked a few over and was able to set them back up, and that's more than double what he needs to lift. I asked Oengul, it's mostly just cleaning and carrying supplies a small distance."

"Would this not be a good time to actually include him in the conversation?" From a distance, Galmar interrupted, gesturing toward the boy in question. Three sets of eyes turned to the elf, making him shift but otherwise stand his ground; Fjorst was the first to speak.

"Would you like to go to Oengul's?" He asked, making sure to separate the two questions so they could be proper yes or no ones that the boy could answer. Rather than one of two options, he shrugged, meaning a rather confused " _I'm not sure, so I don't really care."_

A pause.

"How about you stay for the night, and then start tomorrow morning with the blacksmith?"

"Er, you see-" Fjorst started, making Jora sigh. "Gundke had actually told the others that he was awake, and they all want to see him-"

"There is plenty of time to do so. The sun is still up, unless he wishes to rest." Galmar pointed out, siding with the soldier. The two looked toward the elf, who nodded, agreeing with the idea.

"As long as he's back before sundown. I was told there was a plan to catch the Butcher tonight, I do not want him in the crossfire-"

"Of course, of course, he'll be back before Rolff starts drinking and cursing." Fjorst waved off her concern, slowly backing toward the door. He, Galmar, and the elf started to get near it, arms distance away-

"Fjorst, if you could stay behind a moment. Galmar can show him to- the barracks, I presume?"

"Yes, Jarl Ulfric." Soldier and housecarl agreed, a bit disheartened by the fact that they were being separated. At the elf's questioning glance, Galmar placed a hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the door.

"He will meet up with us soon, let's go."

There was no goodbyes as the door closed behind the two, separating the groups.


	3. Braiding Hair (And Other Bonding Activities)

"Ysmir's saggy ba-"

"Gundke!" His two companions chided when they realized just why they had stumbled; the three had run into a child, a familiar one that they had been searching for. But letting their eyes move up, the group also realized they had walked into the commander-in-charge as well.

"Commander Stone-Fist, sir." Octavia greeted, straightening herself up first out of her fellow Stormcloaks. She put a fist to her heart in salute, but Galmar waved it off.

"At ease, soldier. Just dropping the boy off." Here, he patted the shoulder of the elf, startling the child and giving a small apology after realizing what he had done.

That was how the group of soldiers ended up sitting across from the elf, silent for more than two minutes and simply staring. For the first three minutes, the kid was awkward as ever- he didn't seem to understand what to do around his elders, and opted for being deadly still and staring at he table in front of him.

At four minutes, Octavia reached over to get a book- she saw the kid glance over, and got one for him to.

"You like spell tomes? There's this one soldier, Molgrom, that's interested in them, always leaves them lying around everywhere. I think he just has them to impress women."

"Aye, I've never seen him do magic in his life, that skeeving-" Gundke broke his stare directed at the elf to glare at Octavia when she slapped him. Nonetheless, he shut up, letting the woman go on her small rant.

"I know we're desperate for soldiers, but an ex-thief? Really? He's been arrested in three holds!"

"He'll get what's coming to him. Tried to get Aelase into bed once, she nearly gutted him like a fish. One day, there won't be anyone to stop a woman from cutting him up." Sogni offered as consolidation, and Octavia shrugged, accepting the answer. She slid the spell tome over to the kid, who gave a nod of thanks, before opening it and starting to read.

His eye twitched when he realized he wouldn't have the silence to get through even the first page.

"There are a few mages that can just skim over the book- they just flip a few pages, and bam, they know the spell." Sogni commented to the air, and Gundke gave a shrug, muttering about 'damned magical bastards,' much to his fellow soldiers' anger.

"I don't see the appeal. Most magic's distance, anyways. What about getting up close and personal?"

The boy was starting to get a headache.

"Is that why you're always unprepared? Wanna end an Imperial with your bare hands?"

"Maybe he'll rip their heart out, through the armor." Sogni continued Octavia's joke, and the two started to laugh together.

The elf was given a miracle after the final comment, and it was a whole three minutes of blessed silence before the guards decided to break it once more.

"You're awfully tall for a kid." Sogni pointed out, making Octavia roll her eyes. The boy looked up, curious, and made eye contact for a mere moment before turning his gaze to the right.

"He's an elf, of course he'd be tall."

"The average Breton would be upset with this lack of height difference."

"I'm upset with the small height difference." Gundke grumbled into his cup, angered at the fact that he was only a foot taller than the elf. Considering the kid was- well, a kid, he was hoping to be able to tower over him more. "How old are you, anyways? Sixteen? I guess sixteen."

"Not even thirteen, Gundke." Sogni offered, setting a septim on the table. Gundke matched the bet before turning back to the child who had closed his spell tome, giving up on reading.

"He's twelve," Octavia corrected them from her seat at the table, face in her own book. Lucky her, thought the elf, to be able to read with the noise. "Priestess Jora told Fjorst, who told me. Apparently men and mer grow at pretty much the same rate as kids, who knew?"

The boy gave a look that said he did know, but he remained silent. Sogni slid the two coins over to Octavia, who smirked, triumphant.

There was a pause, broken only by the tome being set down with a soft thud on the table. He had given up on trying to read. The three adults glanced among each other, before one cleared his throat, getting the elf's attention.

"You want some mead?"

"By the Nine, Gundke, you can't give a kid mead!" Sogni shouted, before a questioning look fell on his face. Octavia folded the page of her book and set it down, more of a social creature than she wanted to admit. "...can you?"

"What else is he supposed to drink?" Gundke offered, and the female of the group smacked her fellow soldiers upside the head.

"Water, idiot," Octavia rolled his eyes. "why're you treating him like he's some foreign species? He's just a goldskin, no big deal."

"Don't all elves worship Daedra and eat the hearts of Nords?" Gundke jokingly asked, a wide smile on her face. At the child's half angry, half pitiful look, the three quieted down. But there was a message resting on the entire group, as realization struck the boy at what they had been doing, how they had tried to get him comfortable.

_Thank you._

* * *

 

"Why are you braiding his hair? When did you even learn how to braid?"

Fjorst's mother always warned him against trusting people.

"My ma told me to control my older brother's hair, after he got part of it eaten by a goat when we was kids-" Gundke explained, grinning when he saw pointed ears move backward as the boy smiled.

He was standing in the doorway, unseen by his fellow soldiers, and was listening in.

There was only the four of them in the barracks, engaged in conversation, as others heading out to Candlehearth or to get a few extra hours of rest as night fell upon Windhelm. If one wished to be particularly nit-picky, only two were engaged in conversation- the third guard was trying not to sleep and was drinking away the night, simply listening in, and the child was perusing the spell tome once more as his hair got braided.

"But why?"

"What else should we do? We ain't the best conversation mates. He likes to _read_ , Octavia."

"Such a shame, he's literate." She drawled sarcastically, referencing his own difficulty to read anything other than basic words.

"Are you trying to start something?"

"I would ask if I should spell it out for you, but you can't exactly-"

"Stop it, you two!" Sogni snapped, seeing the frightened look the boy had gotten at the raised voices and prepped fists. The two immediately sat back down, muttering their own apologies, and Gundke used a leather strip to keep the braid together, tying a small bow.

"There! Perfect!"

"Thank the Divines that you can't have kids, Gundke, your daughter would never get married with braids like that." The soldier scowled at him, crossing his arms and helping himself to a tankard. Fjorst turned his eyes to the Altmer, who had opened his book again, having sensed his participation in the conversation not being necessary. But the boy looked up when he felt eyes on him, green meeting the Nord's own blues. The guard was hesitant, shifting on his feet before speaking.

"The Jarl wishes to see you for dinner tomorrow. Well, more like today, as it is a little past one." He gave the information up, and was quick to add on, "Only if you are comfortable with it, of course- he stressed that very much."

At the elf's nod, Fjorst gave a sigh of relief. "That is- that is great. I have a friend with a boy around your size, I will see if he has any proper-looking clothes for you to borrow until we-"

_Figure out what to do with you_ was left unsaid. The elf tensed, before giving a second stiff nod, allowing Fjorst to leave the sentence where it was and not say the words everyone was thinking.

"Let's go get you back to Priestess Jora, yeah?"

"Come on, Fjorst, I think he was starting to really warm up to us!" Gundke whined, watching the kid go. All the soldiers had to admit that, having been surrounded mostly by old men for the past year, it was a nice change of pace to talk to a kid for more than a few seconds. Even if the kid was unresponsive.

"It is also past midnight, and he still needs to rest and heal." The most responsible of the quartet added, slowing lifting a hand and letting it fall into the boy's line of sight before placing it on his shoulder. "We're off. G'night, everyone."

They returned the wish in a chorus of various excitement, watching as the two left before turning and muttering amongst themselves. Fjorst smiled as he heard a book hit skin, before he closed the door behind the two.

"The priestess is going to kill me." He commented casually, cracking a smile when the boy looked back and up at him. The two started to walk side by side, as they entered the cold night air and were given more room than a hallway. "I told her you would be back by nightfall, didn't I?"

The boy gave a smile of his own, trying to hide the growing fear. It seemed he did not do that well, as Fjorst commented on it.

"You have nothing to worry about, you're injured. And she won't hurt me too much because then she'd have more work to do."

If the thought of the priestess scared him, Fjorst did not want to know what the boy would think of the plan to catch the Butcher. Hopefully, it would not happen when they were out. The two had taken a rather quick pace, talking and responding as they crossed the streets of Windhelm and cut corners to get to the Temple as quickly as possible.

When the doors creaked open to reveal an angry priestess, however, Fjorst wondered if the Butcher would put him out of his misery.

"And where have you been?" She asked, voice cold but not harsh. Before the guard could reply, she turned to the boy, bending down to his level and giving a kind smile. "Go clean up and head to bed, I just need to talk to Fjorst for a moment, alright?"

He nodded and gave a goodnight wave to the guard, heading to the back room. When he passed the statue of Talos, a voice rang out.

"The Butcher is lurking the streets and you decided to go on a midnight stroll!?" The boy smiled softly as he heard the beginning of a lecture, and curled up in bed. Sleep came easier than the past nights, as he drifted off, no memories plaguing him.


	4. A Lack of Specification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Elf' is not a good way to describe a shop owner.

Priestess Jora had given him permission the next morning to make his way to Oengul's, if only he promised to care for his body properly and not do too extraneous of work. The boy agreed with a nod and a smile, and had silently portrayed his thanks before leaving.

Oengul wasted no time in ensuring that, after he confirmed the boy's wellness, his new worker was actually capable. It seemed that anything with a bigger temper than silver fell apart in his hands, and the blacksmith was quick to ensure a rather frightened looking boy that there was no problem with that- he would not be at the forge much anyways, mostly organizing and cleaning. And if he needed any help filling orders, it was usually steel that he sold, anyways.

"The problem with the army," he started, working away at quicksilver, "is that their pride is getting in the way of better weapons. Quicksilver's strong and fast, but they refuse to use it because the sword would technically be elven, 'cause of the ore. And glass sounds weak, don't it? Stronger than any orcish sword made in Skyrim."

The statement made Hermir- the apprentice with a fire in her eyes and a heart that beat for Skyrim- go on a rant, about how she would not trust something that was named after such a breakable material. And why would anything elven be stronger than good old Nord steel? Was it not the point of Oengul's job to make it stronger?

"There's only so much one material can do. Some naturally make better weapons than others." He would explain with a sigh, as if he had been asked the question multiple times over the years of apprenticeship.

Except for an hour of startling at every sound of hammer against metal, the boy fit in well, easing his way into the small blacksmith family. He was quieter than both Oengul and Hermir, but an avid listener when the blacksmith or his apprentice started talking. His work was done quickly and efficiently, and after just a few hours, Oengul had to admit that he had a bit of respect for the efficiency of the elf- for his race and age, he wasn't half bad. Hermir rubbed her knuckles on his head at that, welcoming him to the family.

"If Oengul says you're not bad, you're not bad."

After the sun broke the halfway mark in the sky, Fjorst made a visit. And by visit, he meant that he stood on the opposite side of the half-wall and threw smiles back, not allowed to leave his post for four hours but also wanting to tell the elf he was happy to see him.

The rest of the day droned rather uneventfully, the boy getting the swing of things and learning what went where. Customers came and went, there was a small argument in the marketplace across from them that was settled quickly, and eventually the sun was threatening to leave the sky.

Hermir gently nudged the boy out of his organizing haze, nearly getting a chunk of a silver ore thrown at her because of startling him. After ensuring both of their safety, she started to shut the chests, informing him that Oengul was giving the two of them a half-hour at Candlehearth. From there, Hermir would return to work for a few more hours, while he would rest until Fjorst would pick the boy up, to help him get ready for his meeting. They didn't want him falling asleep in front of the Jarl, after all.

That only made the elf go pale, having forgotten about the meeting completely. She was quick to assure him everything would go fine, going on a speech about the Jarl of Eastmarch and talking about him with a rather high level of adoration.

"He is nothing but kind- and you're a kid, you're too cute to be mean to." She gave him a nudge with her shoulder at that, making him smile softly as she continued, "You're very lucky, you know. Jarl Ulfric doesn't just meet with anyone. He's very busy, and the fact that he's taking out time to talk to you...."

Hermir trailed off, lost in thought for a moment, before returning to what she originally meant to say. "It will be fine, kid. No need to worry."

Although it eased some of the worry, the elf could not deny that he still had his doubts. After they finished up their respective meals- the boy's being a light soup, Hermir eating what looked to be more than her body weight in some sort of meat stew- and headed back, they went their separate ways. Oengul pulled his Altmer charge to the side, glancing at the sky before returning to his work.

"Are you able to pick up an order for me?" The blacksmith questioned the elf as he tempered a dagger, distracted. After a pause, he gave a short nod, able to do so if he had better instructions. One hand gestured to the table, where a rolled up piece of parchment sat- the list for the order, he explained as he checked the tip of the dagger.

When the elf didn't move, Oengul threw a hand in the vague direction of the shop, explaining the directions rather unhelpfully. But he was busy, and the child nodded his thanks, heading off to the White Phial.

Nurelion had told Niranye, who in turn told Hermir, that Oengul's order had made it last night. It went back up the list as the blacksmith told the informants that he would be sending someone to pick it up near closing, and there had been no response. No response meant it was fine to do, Oengul figured, and he sent the boy off with the list and gold to pick everything up.

"Owned by this elf- bit eccentric, but if he's at the counter, you're at the right place."

* * *

 

"We're nearly clos- oh. What can I help you with?" The Dunmer started with an angry snap, but deflated when he saw the age of his customer, putting on a soft smile. Parchment and ink was set in the counter, as the younger of the two quickly scribbled out his answer, grimacing at his own spelling.

_Order for Ongull_

"Oengul?" He recognized the name of the blacksmith, even with the bad spelling, and furrowed his brows together. The man wasn't outright rude to any elves that he knew- Niranye visited the Cornerclub every now and then, said he wasn't too bad to her- but at the same time the Nord never bought anything from him before. He had never been seen in the Grey Quarter, neither. "I don't remember an order... do you have a list?"

With a nod he handed over the list, but it only seemed to add to the confusion of the dark elf.

"What do you even need glowing mushrooms for...?" He murmured, looking through the list and shaking his head. "I only have the juniper berries and fire salts, are you sure an order was placed?"

With a firm nod in response, the Dunmer thought for a moment, before adding, "Are you sure this is the right place?"

_He said 'owned by an esentrick elf.'_

"Eccentric?" He seemed insulted and wanted to say more on it, but decided against it, sticking to the topic at hand. "Well, 'owned by an elf' could be- it could be a _lot_ of places. Niranye owns a stall, Nurelion's got his alchemy shop, all of the Grey Quarter's businesses are owned by Dunmer...."

He wasn't sure. Sadri's eyes only showed pity when he saw the look that fell on the boy's face.

"What's your name, kid?"

He was written a response, and Sadri tested it out, saying the name that had not been spoken for months.

"Elialmo?"

It made the boy tense, and before he could offer any more help, Elialmo gave a nod and headed out, closing the door behind him. After a few moments of standing outside, he heard the sound of a latch, signaling the end of the shop hours. He would have to go back empty handed.

Maybe he could ask Oengul to specify, and pick it up tomorrow morning? A plan in his mind, he turned his head left and right, looking around. He would head back now and get the order tomorrow.

Now, the real question was, how was he supposed to get back?

* * *

 

He could have sworn he had been going in circles.

Elialmo turned a corner and would have sighed. He should have expected yet another stone wall, indistinguishable from all the other stone walls he had faced in the past hour. Of course, it was just his luck that he got lost. Sure, he had ended up in the front of Windhelm once, seeing a Khajit caravan just outside the doors, but even when he tried to trace his steps from there he had only gotten hopelessly lost.

_Stupid Skyrim, with its stupid tall walls and stupid lack of organization._

He pulled his borrowed cloak close to his body as a particularly rough wind sent shivers up his spine. Elialmo headed to the closest building that still seemed open, and pushed open the door to a rather loud tavern. He winced at the sound of cheering and bottled clashing together.

It was warm, mostly due to the amount of people than the actual fire, and the sound of music made him smile under his cowl. Priestess Jora's humming was nice, but this was much more relaxed, with elves singing along all around him. The Altmer moved his way through the ctowd and began looking for anyone that seemed to be serving, not drinking. If he could find a worker, ask for directions-

"You lost, brother?" Elialmo turned, surprised to be addressed. An elf, Bosmer by the eye color and general height, was giving him a curious look. The boy nodded cautiously, taking his hood off and hoping to show his expressions better that way to converse as smoothly as possible. The Bosmer's eyes widened when he registered the other's race, having confused him for one of his own due to the similar lack of height, and the boy backed up when his hand went to a dagger.

He let out a breath of relief he didn't know he was holding, when the hand fell away and the Bosmer relaxed. It seemed that he registered the boy's age second, and figured that he wasn't a threat. Why the stranger thought he was a threat in the first place, he could guess. The Thalmor did not care for race, when it came to their victims. Elialmo knew that better than most.

"What brings a kid to the Grey Quarter, this time of night?"

He was getting the attention of those around him, and Elialmo started shifting on his feet, uncomfortable with the multiple sets of eyes.

"Don't you know that us greyskins take the hearts of kids and sacrifice them to the Nerevarine?" One Dunmer to his left snorted, half-drunk as she raised her tankard to her own bad jokes. Elialmo gave an awkward smile as those around her shouted in agreement to something he did not quite understand. And as he hoped the lack of sober conversation partners would pass, he looked to the Bosmer, wanting to save time and be pointed in the right direction. Thankfully, a second wood elf seemed to sense his discomfort, and started directing the conversation to something more helpful.

"Can we help you get back? It isn't really safe for you to be walking alone at night."

"Hand him off to a guard-"

"When you see one nearby, Rianor, I'll be happy to." She snapped, annoyed with his lack of movement. The elf seemed to have assumed her intentions were clear for him, and when he showed no sign of standing, she started to pull on his arm.

"Einnia-"

"Come on, Rianor. He's a lost kid. No Thalmor are gonna be coming after us in the streets of Windhelm." The Bosmer identified as Einnia assured her companion, straightening him up. Now that he was standing, Elialmo could see the elf's sway, and sighed. He had seemed sober enough at first... "No one else here can leave without that drunken Stone-fist throwing things at them."

"We barely can!"

"We can dodge." Here, she turned to Elialmo, cautious with her words, "Do you know the way to your house, if we get you to the marketplace?"

He gave a firm nod and she returned a similar one, pulling her cloak off of the chair Rianor once sat at and giving the other Bosmer one last look. After a moment of silence he sighed and pulled his own cloak, knowing it would be safer for the three of them if they were to run into any guards- pretend to be a visiting family, perhaps. Elialmo could pass as a Bosmer in the lack of lighting.

The door to the Cornerclub creaked open and Einnia threw a glance around outside, her eyes searching for any sign of the Nord that yelled obscenities throughout the night whenever he was drunk. When she considered the area well searched and could not find him, she gestured for her two companions to follow, heading down the stairs and right.

They had gone the long way, though Elialmo did not know that. Einnia was using the darkness with ease, Rianor following only a few steps behind her, with the young elf in between the two and kept safe in the most darkness.

Rianor cursed at the first sight of a figure, pulling himself closer to the wall and wanting to back away. He was only stopped by Einnia grabbing his arm, making him stay in place and wait for her move. She watched for a moment, letting her eyes adjust, before giving a sigh of relief and grabbing his arm rather closely, nestling her head between his chin and shoulder. With a hiss, she explained the situation, gesturing for Elialmo to walk in front of them.

"Just a guard. A Stormcloak, Rianor." They acted for a few moments, until Elialmo gave a nod at the soldier turning a corner, and Einnia automatically detached herself from the elf. She rubbed her neck, annoyed. "You're too short for me to lean against you properly."

The Altmer of the group smiled at that, turning right when Einnia instructed him to, and Rianor rolled his eyes.

"Just because you have been blessed with height-"

"I'm average. You're short."

"It kept me alive on my way here." He tried to defend, crossing his arms. "A bandit camp near Whiterun- mostly Nords and Orcs- thought I was a kid, and let me live. Even offered me some food."

The shaking of Elialmo's shoulders gave him up, as he silently laughed and tried to keep as much of it in as possible. Einnia herself snorted, throwing an arm around Rianor's shoulders and letting out a long breath after she finished laughing.

"Laugh all you want, Brelas, it's a blessing sometimes!"

Brelas? Fake names?

"Of course it is."

"Excuse me!" A guard behind them called out and they cursed, tense as they turned. Elialmo felt like he recognized the voice, and tried to look around the two to see who it was. Yet Einnia- Brelas?- kept a firm hold on him, keeping him hidden. "Have the two of you seen a kid around here? Altmer, yay high?"

"'fraid not, sir." Einnia lied, a sad look on her face. The guard seemed to be studying them for a few moments, before giving a nod and telling them to stay out of trouble.

"Why are the guards looking for you?" Rianor hissed as they continued on, uncomfortable with the entire situation now that he knew it was not just returning a kid to his parents. Elialmo gave a shrug, unsure, but figuring that it could have just been Oengul spreading the word that he's gone missing to a select few.

He hoped it was only that. The soldier was a Nord, right...? Not mer? Not Thalmor?

"It's not like the Jarl is looking for him, it's- by Y'ffre the Jarl is looking for him." Einnia cursed loudly, seeing him tense at the mention of the Jarl. "You're not a criminal are you? Please say we aren't smuggling a criminal out of Windhelm-"

He shook his head to assure them that wasn't the case, before imitating eating, trying to explain that he was supposed to meet with the Jarl for dinner before he got lost. Rianor, on the other hand, took the sign a different way.

"We are not eating the Jarl to help you leave Windhelm! I left the Green Pact behind in Falinesti, I-"

"You were supposed to meet with the Jarl for dinner? Why's he interested in you?"

He pointed to his ears, before pretending to be tall and intimidating. Understanding dawned on Einnia, and with a smile, she offered her guess of what he meant.

"The Thalmor. Makes sense, I suppose." She seemed to understand that it wasn't best to push, returning to her original question. "Are we taking you to the Jarl, then?"

"I don't want to be anywhere near him, Brelas-" Rianor warned, not happy with where this little trip was heading. Thankfully, Elialmo shook his head, and mimicked hitting a hammer.

"The blacksmith? That's... near the marketplace, isn't it?"

A nod, from both Rianor and Elialmo. As they headed in the right direction, Einnia started a conversation with her Bosmer companion, figuring it to be as good a time as any to confront him.

"I don't know why you're so against seeing the Jarl. If you just told him about your involvement with-"

"Of course, there is nothing I want more in my life than to have one of Ulfric's soldiers give me- what, five Septims and a slap on the back?" He drawled sarcastically, lowering his voice and pulling Elialmo closer when a guard passed. "Or better yet, I go up to the Jarl himself and he imprisons me, and tortures me for information!"

"I hardly-"

"I just want to get someone to take care of that damn cat so I can go to Morrowind. I'm done with politics, with the Thalmor, with Delphine-"

The sudden movement of Elialmo made Rianor jump and curse, and he turned to the boy, annoyed. But Einnia understood what he meant, when he looked up at the name.

"Do you know her?" At his nod, Rianor groaned.

"Did she send you? Tell her I haven't talked, alright? She doesn't need to keep an eye on me unless she plans to do something about that assassin. I'm safe enough here, changed name and everything..."

Elialmo considered how he would say what he wanted to, as they turned to the marketplace of Windhelm, locked up stalls around them. He put one finger from one hand to a second finger on the other, before separating them, trying to sign what he meant as simply as possible.

"You got separated? Is she here?"

He shook his head, and Rianor gave another sigh, about to ask another question. But Einnia stopped him, looking around.

"This is hardly the place to talk about things like this. Are you staying in Windhelm?" A nod, and Einnia gave her own as she thought quickly, "We can probably ask Rendar and borrow the top floor of the Cornerclub. Are you available tomorrow night?"

Elialmo shrugged, unsure. He would have to see how Oengul reacted to him accidentally getting lost, and the change of plans with the Jarl, but he was pretty positive that he could slip away if necessary. This was important, if they could help him contact Delphine.

"We're usually there anyways, and if we're not, ask the bartender where you could find us. He's always pretty updated on news about any elves in Windhelm."

A second nod. Einnia gave a small smile before grabbing Rianor's wrist, pulling him slightly away from Elialmo. The male of the duo shifted on his feet and wished him a good night, not giving a permanent goodbye.

"See you later, kid. Stay safe."

"Good luck." They gave each other nods before heading their separate ways, Elialmo turning to the blacksmith's quarters and shifting on his feet. He would have to face them eventually.

In less than a minute he was at the door, knocking quietly and hoping he was not waking anyone up. The pit grew in his stomach when he heard the door being unlatched rather quickly- had they stayed up in worry?

Hermir opened the door and nearly dropped to her knees in relief, embracing him and giving a cry of happiness at seeing him.

"We were worried sick! Oengul left  _hours_ ago to search for you, and was nearly ready to demand soldiers be sent outside of the walls to look for you. Where have you been?"

A pause, as she pulled away but kept her hands on the other's shoulders. Elialmo gestured up to his ears, and she furrowed her brows, trying to understand.

"Ears...?" Understanding dawned on her, as he specified the points of them. "You got lost in the Grey Quarter all night? Are you alright? I mean, of course you're alright, but they didn't steal anything from you, did they-?"

At the look he gave her, she started to look sheepish. "Sorry, habit. Go upstairs and get to bed, I'll flag down a guard and tell Oengul you're back. We'll figure out what to tell the Jarl."

He gave a nod before pausing, and making a split decision to give her a hug back. Hermir was surprised, used to being the one giving and not receiving, and by the time she started to react and return the affection Elialmo was already away and up the stairs.

She looked at the direction he went and, shaking her head, she smiled.

What an odd kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I do this because I can't write Ulfric well? Yes, yes I did.
> 
> I wrote four different 'finding out his name' scenes- some literally included a dragon. This is the one that won.


End file.
